


Heaven

by spire_cx



Series: Perfect, Imperfect [3]
Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Painplay, Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spire_cx/pseuds/spire_cx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hoya comes to terms with the fact that the future is uncertain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven

Dongwoo walks with his hands tucked under his arms. Hoya walks in a daze.

The city is changed, the streets unrecognizable. A mist has swept in and all the lights have gone green and dim. The streets are shrouded, their paths obscured; from the fog peek pink chrysanthemums and the waxy leaves of rhododendrons long past their bloom.

Hoya feels lost, unhinged, and barely conscious. Their eyes do not meet but he puts a hand to Dongwoo's back at corners, reaching out to make sure he's still real. He is; or he feels real, at least, which is probably all that matters. Every touch is breathtaking, and every touch brings him to the edge of a cliff, tall and steep over the abyss of Dongwoo's body.

The taxi ride is not long, but it feels long. Dongwoo pulls off his hood and sits on the other side of the cab, carving a wide, cold, deliberate rift between their bodies. They do not touch, they cannot touch, but in sidelong glances stolen between stoplights they search for answers in each other's lips and hands and shoulders. When Dongwoo looks out the window his eyes focus on the horizon, and the distant mountains hazy and blue, and against the night his profile is weary and sad and old.

It's heartbreaking and pathetic and it's not what Hoya wants—but it strikes him, suddenly, that maybe it's all they can ever have.

What does he think of _that_?

He doesn't know. He knows he wants to hold him: fuck everything else, he wants to hold him. But this isn't a game anymore. Every action is a decision and a finality, and every choice leads him further down a one-way path.

Watching Dongwoo watch the darkness, Hoya can feel their future bearing down on them. It's been following them since the beginning, but it's closer now than ever before: breathing inevitabilities down his neck, whispering in his ear of all the unavoidable decisions he's not sure he's capable of facing.

In a way, this is like deliverance. But in a way, it's also like sacrifice. He's worked so long and so hard and he wants to be a person who never regrets, but it could be undone so quickly—all of it, just because he wants to hold him.

He's shaking by the time they get back to their building, his whole body quivering with uncertainty and euphoria and fear. In the elevator, Dongwoo stands in the corner and stares at the seam of the doors. There's a security camera on the ceiling, probably not even functional but still enough to discourage Hoya from pulling him close. He tells himself that he has other reasons—that he's just having trouble articulating them. His throat is closing like a vise and with it a window, but he doesn't want to think about what it's waiting for him to do.

As they walk toward the apartment the hallway spins around him like in an amusement park funhouse. At the door Dongwoo digs his keycard from his wallet and Hoya leans against the wall, searching for an anchor.

"Everyone's home," Dongwoo says.

"I know," Hoya answers.

Everyone is always home.

Dongwoo taps the keycard against the palm of his hand. He's staring down beyond it, at the shadows of his feet.

"You know," he says, "it's not fair."

Hoya takes a deep breath.

"I know."

Dongwoo looks at him. "Do you ever think about what it would be like, if things were different?" he asks.

Hoya's heart falls like a stone to the pit of his stomach. 

_Different_.

"I don't think we'd be here right now, if things were different," he says.

Dongwoo's eyes flash dark. It's an unpleasant truth; most truths are.

Who knows: maybe this is stupid; maybe there are other ways. Maybe things _could_ be different. Maybe he would change everything, if he could start again. Maybe he would choose a normal life, if given the chance.

And maybe, in some distant universe, pointless questions solved problems.

"It doesn't matter," he says.

Dongwoo's lips part; he moves to speak, but doesn't; his shoulders, stiff and straight, go loose.

_It doesn't matter._

And maybe that's all that matters: that things aren't different, that they're here now and this is what they have. This, and the things they choose to build with it.

He can't help himself. He reaches out and puts a hand on Dongwoo's neck, his fingers spreading wide across his skin, feeling with his fingertips the corded muscle in the slope of his shoulder. His heart twists, stabs, aches; he wants to tell him what he's feeling but he doesn't know the words. Awe, regret, fury, fear; devotion, determination, loyalty; a flurry of emotions that Hoya cannot name and even less speak. But Dongwoo has never been a man of words. And, Hoya realizes, he's probably already spoken all the words that Dongwoo needs to hear.

So he leans forward and kisses him instead.

The world unravels in his hands. The world, and the past, and the future, everything he thought he was scared of and everything he thought he wanted. Because Dongwoo is in his arms, kissing him hard, opening his mouth against his lips and fisting his shirt in his hands, and right now it's the only thing that's real, and the only thing that's sure, and the only thing that matters.

Dongwoo always kisses with everything he has: like nothing he says can ever compare to the things he does. It's true, Hoya knows it's true, knows that everything he could ever want from him is there in the slide of his lips and the heat of his breath against his cheek. Hoya's hand finds his waist, his shoulder, the line of his jaw moving gently, and when he touches his eyes, lashes soft and fluttering, the words appear in his mind unbidden: _first kiss_.

It's not, of course. He barely even remembers what his first kiss was like; he didn't love her, that much he knows for sure. And he doesn't remember at all the first time he kissed Dongwoo. It was probably during sex.

It doesn't matter. This is the one he'll remember because this is the one that counts.

Dongwoo pulls away first. When Hoya looks at him his eyes are still closed.

"Hey," Dongwoo says, his voice low, "do you want to go to a motel?"

Hoya doesn't respond. Dongwoo brushes his lips against his cheek.

"I can pay, I have money."

He paid last time, too, Hoya recalls.

"We don't have to stay all night," Dongwoo whispers. "We can come back before morning."

It certainly wouldn't be the first time they'd foregone sleep for sex.

Dongwoo sighs. "I really..."

He doesn't finish his sentence.

They always have the bathroom, or the couch, or the kitchen, of course. Before, it was thrilling to touch each other where anyone could walk in on them. Tonight, though, the idea is infuriating: that this is what they've come to, that this is all they're left with. Desperate fucks in cold showers, hands in mouths to keep themselves quiet.

It's stupid. It's so stupid. And for the first time, Hoya would rather have nothing than this halfway horseshit.

He feels the specter of their unavoidable decisions creeping up behind him, and the back of his neck prickles with the knowledge of all his distant responsibilities. Maybe those responsibilities are greater and more important than he assumes. But maybe the only way to face them is the only way he knows how.

Maybe he only has to make one choice at a time.

He looks at Dongwoo's face: his eyes, his lips, the gentle slope of his cheekbones, the texture of his skin. Even there, in the dark and supple line between his lips, there's trust: years and years of it, trust like Hoya thought he never deserved and never asked for and rarely wanted but always received all the same.

Trust, and understanding, and a promise.

He grabs Dongwoo's arm, fingers digging into his bicep, and yanks him away from the door. Dongwoo opens his eyes, first wide with panic but then sparkling with barely-contained excitement when he meets Hoya's gaze.

Hoya drags him bodily down the hall and into the emergency stairwell. The door slams closed behind them like iron thunder; he pushes Dongwoo against the concrete wall and then is on him, kissing him again, hard and furious and off-tempo with all the words that he does not know.

Dongwoo can't hold back: moaning, gasping, hands all over Hoya's body, crushing him close with every ounce of strength he has. He snatches at Hoya's wrists and unsubtly guides his hands down to the curve of his ass; he tries to pull a leg up around Hoya's waist, and groans in frustration when Hoya pushes it away.

"I'm not going to fuck you here," Hoya says.

Dongwoo bites at his neck in retaliation—Hoya shoves him away, the heels of his hands hard against his chest where he knows he's still sore, and Dongwoo gasps in pain.

"Calm down," Hoya says.

Dongwoo is staring at him, breathing hard; his hair, black as midnight in the low light, has been knocked free of its place behind his ear, and behind the fringe of his bangs his eyes are gleaming with anticipation.

Hoya can't suppress the smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips. Dongwoo always wants everything, and all at once. Patience is not one of his virtues. Luckily for him, Hoya has always had a talent for parsing what he _needs_ from the chaotic tangle of things that he _wants_.

He places a hand in the center of Dongwoo's chest, pushing him against the wall. Dongwoo wriggles under the touch. 

"Stay still," Hoya orders. Dongwoo obeys, going still, closing his hands into tight fists, and whining at the back of his throat.

With one finger Hoya begins to trace wide circles across the hard planes of Dongwoo's chest. Dongwoo's breath hitches in his throat. He looks down to watch Hoya's hand, eyes falling half-closed, lip jutting out obscenely.

"Howon..."

Hoya traces absentminded patterns. He spells his name. He draws the sign for infinity. Gradually, he moves closer and closer to where Dongwoo's newly-pierced nipples are still burning and painful beneath his clothing. With every closer pass Dongwoo's breath quickens, harder and faster until he's panting, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Hoya's fingers.

Hoya lifts his hand into the air over Dongwoo's raw, tender flesh. Dongwoo squirms beneath him and bucks against the press of his hips.

"Howon, please..."

Hoya draws a circle around Dongwoo's breast. Slowly he starts to spiral the touch inward, inching toward his fresh, raw piercing.

"Please what?" he asks.

Dongwoo looks at him. His eyes are hooded and glassy and dark and his brow is knotted with desperation.

"Please touch me."

Hoya's mouth is suddenly dry. "Where?" he rasps, his voice gravelly and rough. "Here?" He flicks at Dongwoo's nipple, his fingernail clacking against the barbell.

Dongwoo gasps and arches instinctively away from the shock of pain. His eyes shut and open again; he stares up into the empty space of the stairwell and Hoya watches as his self-awareness flickers in and out.

"Yes," Dongwoo groans, " _yes_."

Hoya holds his hand above Dongwoo's body, feeling the heat of his skin even through the fabric of his clothing.

He pauses. This has never been easy, but it's also never made sense. It's never been about so _much_ before.

Hoya takes a deep breath. "You..." he begins.

Dongwoo's gaze snaps back to him, and in the sallow light his eyes are wide, black, fathomless, and so, so clear.

"You've been so good," Hoya says.

Dongwoo shudders. "Howon."

It's only one word, but behind it Hoya knows there are ten thousand more he cannot say. 

Hoya finally touches him—brushing one finger across his wounded nipple—and Dongwoo gasps, electrified. Hoya traces around the jewelry beneath Dongwoo's shirt and strokes the swollen peak softly, in small circles and short, quick swipes. He flicks and pinches and soon Dongwoo is trembling and twitching beneath him, his whole body tense with anticipation. He's breathing fast and grinding his hips in slow circles against Hoya, cock hard and eager and insistent between their bodies.

Hoya could do this for hours. Teasing him, coaxing him, leading him to the edge and then pulling him back, over and over until he's begging. His cock throbs at the thought of the motel room that's waiting for them, and all the sounds that will echo around its walls.

Hoya takes Dongwoo's nipple between his thumb and forefinger and applies pressure: just enough for Dongwoo to feel. Dongwoo's hands tighten in the collar of his jacket and his breath catches in his throat—Hoya grinds hard against him, pushing their cocks together, and when Dongwoo grinds back, he tightens his grip on the piercing.

"Ow," Dongwoo gasps, wincing, "that hurts."

Hoya starts thrusting against him with rhythm: hard and slow, rubbing the full length of Dongwoo's cock with his own. It's the same rhythm that drives Dongwoo wild when he's bound and helpless and open in the middle of the night, in the darkness, taking Hoya's cock like he was _born_ for it. His face is contorted with pain, but his mouth falls open in ecstasy as Hoya finds his stride, his lips a perfect pink circle, glossy and wet.

Hoya squeezes his nipple harder.

"Stop," Dongwoo gasps, "please stop."

But that word hasn't been itself for a long time: not since that day on the bus in Japan when he pushed a piece of paper into Hoya's hand, the bible of his body and mind and heart and soul, written on cutesy stationery and folded into a square and titled "How to hurt me."

Hoya squeezes harder, harder, refusing to hesitate, until he feels the resistance of the barbell deep within Dongwoo's flesh.

Dongwoo throws his head back, banging it against the wall. His grip on Hoya's shoulder tightens; Hoya feels the collar of his t-shirt dig into his neck as Dongwoo pulls on him, desperate for purchase.

"Howon," he chokes, breathless, overcome, "stop, please, Howon."

His legs are shaking, threatening to give out, but his hips are jerking against Hoya's body, pushing erratically back against Hoya's steady thrusts.

Hoya's cock feels hard enough to drive nails. A deep, dark pain seethes in the pit of his stomach, coiled tight like a serpent ready to strike. He's so hard and so close, but he knows Dongwoo is closer: breath coming shallow and fast, face contorted in an expression of pain, hands clenched into tight fists against Hoya's chest. He's teetering on the edge of orgasm, and the thought alone is almost enough to make Hoya come.

He holds the barbell between his fingers and starts to twist. Dongwoo cries out; the sound echoes through the stairwell, all the way up and all the way down, revelatory and terrifying.

Hoya clamps his free hand over Dongwoo's mouth. "Quiet," he orders. Dongwoo moans; his eyelids flutter shut.

Hoya continues slowly twisting, more and more fight trickling from Dongwoo's body with each degree further the barbell turns. He quickens the pace of his hips; even through their clothes he can feel Dongwoo's cock throbbing, twitching against his own with every thrust. He can imagine all-too-clearly what it looks like, what it would feel like in his mouth, against his tongue. He thinks about their first time together, and remembers how awed he was by sight of another man's cock in his hand.

Not just another man, though. _This_ man.

Somehow, the thought makes Hoya want to cry.

The barbell is nearly vertical, and all the strength has drained from Dongwoo's legs. One hand over his mouth, the other inflicting his torture, Hoya can barely hold him upright with only a thigh between his legs and the length of his body pushing him against the wall.

Dongwoo is kicking at the concrete and panting hard wheezing breaths against Hoya's hand. As he watches him, as he feels him, a word rises to the surface of Hoya's mind, floating up from the deep and dark morass of his thoughts: _honest_.

Honesty. He thinks about all the people that see Dongwoo's smile and shake his hand and come away feeling like they know him. He thinks about all the fans who watch him and listen to him and think they understand him.

And maybe, in some ways, they do. Maybe in some ways he is not so impenetrable a fog. But the rest of the world will never know the man that he knows. This honesty is for him, only for him, and all for him. A gift. Perhaps the price was steep. But perhaps that's how it should be.

Hoya feels something hot and wet rolling along the side of his hand. He looks up at Dongwoo's eyes—they are dark and shining with tears.

Hoya lets go.

It's an explosion of energy, the universe pouring down into him, as the instant release from pain sends Dongwoo over the edge. He comes hard, shouting against Hoya's hand and scratching at Hoya's shoulders, eyes squeezed shut and lashes wet with tears; and even as Hoya grinds against him, guiding him through his climax, the only thing he knows is that it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Through his own cock he can feel Dongwoo coming, the steady pulse of his orgasm pounding down his length. For a long, breathless moment Dongwoo's entire body is frozen solid against him, tight and hard as he rides out the waves of feeling—and then he's a sudden boneless mess in Hoya's arms, all his muscles gone slack. Hoya can no longer hold him up; he lets him fall to his knees, slumping against the wall. He grabs at Hoya's hips, and then at his thighs, and before Hoya can move to stop him he's fumbling with shaking fingers at the fly of Hoya's jeans and pulling his cock from his pants.

Dongwoo takes him all at once, hands tangled tight in his clothing. He looks up at him, straight into his eyes, cheeks wet with tears and skin flushed bright red. Hoya's throat closes up. The urge to look away is almost overpowering, as the rational part of him makes a desperate, last-ditch effort at self-preservation. He won't look away, of course. He won't, he can't, and for the first time, he doesn't want to.

So he looks, watches him, takes his head in his hands and winds his fingers in his hair and thrusts once, twice, three times into the heat of his mouth—Dongwoo whines, swallows, blinks, and there's nothing else Hoya can do. It's done, sealed, decided, as Hoya comes against the back of his throat, staring down into his eyes.

He descends from the plateau of orgasm slowly, drifting like a bit of paper caught in the wind. When he emerges from the haze Dongwoo is still on the floor, grasping weakly at Hoya's ankles, a rumpled heap of pain and semen and cold sweat.

He tucks himself back into his pants and reaches down to pull Dongwoo back to his feet. He stands only with effort, legs still shaking with the last gasps of adrenaline racing through his bloodstream.

Hoya takes him finally into his arms, and in the clarity of afterglow Dongwoo's body is dizzying. He's hard and bony and fragile and mortal and _here_ , under his hands in so many ways.

Hoya's vision goes a little fuzzy at the edges. His head feels suddenly heavy, like he's falling back to earth, or sinking to the bottom of the sea. He sighs despite himself, and closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, Dongwoo is there, watching him, waiting. His eyes are wide and dark with a thousand different colors.

And Hoya sees him there, finally, for what he is: perfect, even in all his pain and shame and confusion. Perfect, in all his imperfections.

Hoya reaches down and takes him by the hand.

"Come on," he says, "let's go."


End file.
